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LETTERS 



EXTRACTS FROM OLD LETTERS OF 
->, RABINDRANATH TAGORE 



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THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

1917 

All rights reserved 



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Copyright, 1917 

By the MACMILLAN COMPANY 

Set up and electrotyped. Published , 1917. 



JUL -3 1917 

©CIA470145 



LETTERS OF TAGORE 

(68) 

CUTTACK, 

February: 1893. 

TILL we can achieve something, let us live 
incognito, say L So long as we are only 
fit to be looked down upon, on what shall 
we base our claim to their respect? When we 
shall have acquired a foothold of our own in the 
world, when we shall have had some share in 
shaping its course, then we can meet them smil- 
ingly. Till then let us keep in the background, 
attending to our own affairs. 

But our countrymen seem to hold the opposite 
opinion. They set no store by our more modest, 
intimate wants which have to be met from behind 
the scenes, the whole of their attention being 
directed to that which is but momentary atti- 
tudinising and display. 

Ours is truly a God-forsaken country. Diffi- 
cult, indeed, is it for us to keep up the strength of 
our will to do. We get no help in any real sense. 
We have none within miles of us, in converse with 
whom we may gain an access of vitality. No one 
seems to be thinking or feeling or working. Not 



4 LETTERS OF TAGORE 

a soul has any experience of big striving or of 
really and truly living. 

They all eat and drink, do their office work, 
smoke and sleep, and chatter nonsensically. When 
they touch upon emotion they grow sentimental, 
when they reason they are childish. One yearns 
for a full-blooded, sturdy and capable personality; 
these are all so many shadows flitting about out of 
touch with the world. 



(69) 

CUTTACK, 

loth February: 1893. 

He was a fully developed John Bull of the out- 
rageous type, — with a huge beak of a nose, cun- 
ning eyes and a yard-long chin. The curtailment 
of our right to be tried by jury is now under con- 
sideration by the Government. The fellow 
dragged in the subject by the ears and insisted 

on arguing it out with our host, poor B babu. 

He said the moral standard of the people in this 
country was low; that they had no real belief in 
the sacredness of life; so that they were unfit to 
serve on juries. 

The utter contempt with which we are regarded 
by these people was brought home to me to see 
how they can accept a Bengali's hospitality and 



LETTERS OF TAGORE s 

talk thus, seated at his table, without a quiver of 
compunction. 

As I sat in a corner of the drawing room after 
dinner, everything round me looked blurred to my 
eyes. I seemed to be seated by the head of my 
great, insulted Motherland, lying there in the dust 
before me, in dejection, shorn of her glory. I 
cannot tell what a profound distress overpowered 
my heart. 

How incongruous seemed the memsahihs there, 
in their evening dresses, the hum of English con- 
versation, and the ripples of laughter. How 
richly true for us is our India of the ages, how 
cheap and false the hollow courtesies of an English 
dinner party. 

(70) 

PURI, 

14th February: 1893. 
Some people have a mind like a photographic 
wet plate; — unless they fix the picture then and 
there, it is apt to get spoilt. That is the case with 
me. I want at once to write down in a letter what- 
ever of interest I see. Such a quantity of things 
to describe passed before me on the way from 
Cuttack to Puri, I could have recorded any num- 
ber of vivid pictures had I but time to write them 
down as I saw them. 



6 LETTERS OF TAGORE 

But these few tiresome days have come between, 
and now I find many of the details have grown 
hazy. Another reason for this is the sea, which 
in Puri lies before me night and day. It has cap- 
tured the whole of my attention, leaving me no 
opportunity to hark back to the incidents of the 
journey. 

After our midday meal on Saturday, B 

babu, Balu and I placed our rugs on the back seat 
of a hired phaeton, leaned back against our pillows, 
and, with a servant mounted on the coach box, 
made a start. 

Where our road crossed the Katjuri ^ river 
we had to leave the carriage and get into palan- 
quins. The grey sands of the river stretched 
away in every direction. They rightly call it the 
hed of the river in English. It is indeed like a 
bed which the sleeper has left in the morning. 
Every movement of the river, as it rolled from 
side to side, and pressed with the weight of its 
water now here now there, is left impressed on the 
hollows and billows of its sand bed, which has not 
been made since. 

At the further edge of this vast sandy course, 
the thin crystal-clear stream of the river is seen. 
In the Meghaduta of Kalidas there is a description 
of a Yaksha woman, pining for her banished hus- 

' One of the branches of the Mahanadi. 



LETTERS OF TAGORE 7 

band, lying merged in the edge of her deserted bed, 
like the thin line of the old moon in its last phase at 
the limit of the eastern horizon. This thin, worn 
river, athirst for the rains, furnishes another simile. 

A fine road runs from Cuttack to Puri. It rises 
high out of the fields on either side, and is shaded 
with great big trees, mostly mangoes, which in 
this season are in flower, charging the air with 
their cloying fragrance. It passes by village after 
village surrounded with groves of mango, as- 
wattha, cocoanut and day palm. 

Here and there half dry water courses crossed 
our path, and near these, strings of mat-covered 
bullock-carts were drawn up; little thatched 
sweet-meat shops lined the road-side; and in 
shelters under the shade of trees pilgrims were 
busy attending to their meals. At the sight of 
each newly arriving carriage or cart, beggars 
swarmed round with a variety of wails in a medley 
of tongues. 

As we drew nearer and nearer to Puri, the con- 
course of pilgrims grew denser and denser, some 
scattered in groups along the road, others under 
the trees or by the side of pools, stretched in 
repose, or cooking their food. At frequent in- 
tervals there came temples, pilgrim rest houses 
and big artificial tanks. ^ 

^ Rectangular pieces of water. 



8 LETTERS OF TAGORE 

Then, to our right hand there spreads a large 
lake-like sheet of water beyond which the temple 
of Jagannath towers into view. And, suddenly, 
as we emerge from a clump of trees, we see before 
us a broad stretch of sand, edged with a deep blue 
line — the seal 



(71) 

Balia, 

iTth March: 893. 

It is a tiny little house boat. I can see that 
the main reason of its existence is to take down 
the pride of tall people like myself. Every time 
I absently rise with any suddenness, I get a tre- 
mendous wooden slap on the top of my head, — 
which is very dejecting. So I spent the whole 
of yesterday humbly stooping. Even this I 
did not mind so much, but when fate added to its 
blows by giving me a sleepless night for the mos- 
quitoes, I felt it was really too bad. 

The cold weather has disappeared and it is 
getting warm. The sun is decidedly hot and a 
moist warm breeze is blowing on my back through 
the open window. To-day we are quit of our 
allegiance both to the cold and to civilisation. 
And our coats are hanging up on the pegs. There 
is no gong to mark the fractional parts of time, its 



LETTERS OF TAGORE 9 

broad division into day and night being enough 
for us here. No salaaming liveried orderlies are 
about, so we can lazily take our uncivilised ease 
without a qualm. 

The birds are singing and the big leaves of the 
banyan tree on the bank are making a rustling 
sound. The sunlight reflected off the ripples is 
dancing on the walls of our cabin. At Cuttack, 

what with B babu's going to court, and the 

children going to school, there was no forgetting 
the value of time, or the bustle of civilised So- 
ciety. Here everything moves with leisurely 
sloth. 



(72) 

TiRAN, 

March: 1893. 

From inside a brick-built house clouds and 
rain are all very well, but they do not add to the 
comfort of the two of us confined in this little 
boat. Dripping water from a leaky roof may be 
good for the bumps which the latter gives the head, 
but it serves all the same to fill up the cup of our 
misfortune. 

I thought we had finished with the rains, and 
that Nature after her shower bath would be dry- 
ing her hair with her back to the sun; her green 



10 LETTERS OF TAGORE 

sari spread on the branches, over the fields; her 
spring-coloured scarf, no longer damp and limp, 
fluttering gaily in the breeze. But that aspect 
of hers is not with us yet, and day after day is 
cloudy, without a break. 

I have prepared myself for the worst by borrow- 
ing a copy of Kalidas's Meghaduta from a friend 
in Cuttack and keeping it by me. If in the 
Pandua residence, the sky over the spreading fields 
before me should become softly moist with blue- 
grey clouds then it will be nice to repeat passages 
out of it. 

Unfortunately I cannot get anything by heart, 
and the keen enjoyment of being able to repeat 
lines of poetry at will Is not for me. By the time 
I have rummaged out the book, and hunted for 
the place, I often cease to want the poem. It is as 
bad as feeling sad and wanting to weep, but having 
to wait for a phial of tears to be dispensed by the 
chemist! 

So when I leave town I needs must take quite 
a number of books with me. Not that I read 
every one each time, but I never know beforehand 
which might be wanted. How convenient it 
would have been if men's minds had regular sea- 
sons. When we travel in winter we take only our 
warm clothes, and we leave our rugs behind in 
summer. If onlv we knew when it would be 



LETTERS OF TAGORE ii 

winter in our minds, and when spring, we could 
provide ourselves with prose and poetry books 
accordingly. 

The seasons of the mind, however, are not 6 ^ 
but 52, like a pack of cards; and which one the 
whimsical player within us will turn up next there 
is no knowing. So I have an endless variety of 
books at hand from Nepalese Buddhistic litera- 
ture to Shakespeare, the majority of which I shall 
probably not touch. 

I am hardly ever without the old Vaishnava 
poets and the Sanskrit classics, but this time I left 
them at home and so as luck would have it wanted 
them all the more. The Meghaduta would have 
been the very thing while I was wandering about 
Puri and Khandagiri, — but there instead of the 
Meghaduta I had only Caird's Philosophical 
Essays! 

(73) 

CUTTACK, 

March: 1893. 

If we begin to attach too much importance to 

the applause of Englishmen, we shall have to get 

rid of much that is good in us, and to accept much 

that is bad from them. 

^ The recognised seasons in Upper India are six: Spring, Summer, 
the Rains, Autumn, the Dews and Winter. 



12 LETTERS OF TAGORE 

We shall get to be ashamed to go about without 
socks on our feet, but cease to feel shame at the 
sight of their ball dresses. We shall have no com- 
punction in throwing overboard our ancient 
manners, nor any in emulating their lack of 
courtesy. We shall leave off wearing our achgans 
because they are susceptible of improvement, but 
think nothing of surrendering our heads to their 
hats though no head gear could well be uglier. 

In short, consciously or unconsciously, we shall 
have to cut our lives down to the measure of the 
clapping of their hands. 

Wherefore I apostrophise myself and say: O 
Earthen Pot! For goodness' sake get away from 
the Metal Pot! Whether he comes for you in 
anger, or merely to give you a patronising pat on 
the back, you are done for, and go down, all the 
same. So pay heed to old ^sop's sage counsel, I 
pray, — and keep your distance. 

Let the metal pot ornament wealthy homes, 
you have your work to do in those of the poor. If 
you let yourself be broken, you will have no place 
in either, but merely return to the dust; or at best 
you may secure a corner in a bric-a-brac cabinet, 
— as a curiosity. It is more glorious by far to be 
borne to fetch water by the meanest of village 
women. 



LETTERS OF TAGORE 13 

(74) 

Calcutta, 
i6th April: 1893. 

It Is only when we commune alone with nature, 
face to face, that it becomes at all possible to real- 
ise our pristine and profound relations with the 
sea. 

As I gaze on the sea and listen to its eternal 
melody, I seem to understand how my restless 
heart of to-day used to be dumbly agitated then 
with its heaving, desolate waters, when in the 
beginning there was no land, but only the sea all 
by itself. 

The sea of my mind to-day Is heaving much In 
the same way, as though something were being 
created in the chaos beneath its surface; — vague 
hopes and uncertain fears, trustings and doubt- 
ings; heavens and hells; elusive. Inscrutable feel- 
ings and imaginings; the ineffable mystery of 
beauty, the unfathomable depths of love; the 
thousand and one ever-new kaleidoscopic com- 
binations of the human mind, of which it is im- 
possible even to be conscious until one is alone 
with oneself under the open sky, or beside the 
open sea. 



14 LETTERS OF TAGORE 

(75) 

Calcutta, 
SOth April: 1893. 

Yesterday I was lying on the terrace roof till 
ten o'clock in the night. The moon was near its 
full; there was a delicious breeze; no one else was 
about. Stretched out there alone, I glanced back 
over my past life. This roof terrace, this moon- 
light, this south breeze, — in so many ways are 
they intertwined with my life. . . I am keeping 
cool my bottled memories "in the deep-delved 
earth" for my old age, and hope to enjoy them 
then, drop by drop, in the moonlight, on the roof 
terrace. 

Imagination and reminiscence do not suffice a 
man in his youth, — his warm blood Insists on 
action. But when with age he loses his power to 
act and ceases to be worried by an abundance of 
motive force, then memory alone Is satisfying. 
Then the lake of his mind, placid like the still 
moonlight, receives so distinct a picture of old 
memories that it becomes difficult to make out 
the dlflference between past and present. 



LETTERS OF TAGORE 15 

(76) 

Shelidah, 
May: 1893. 

I am now back again in the boat, which is my 
home. Here I am the sole master, and no one 
has any claim on me or my time. The boat is 
like my old dressing gown, — when I get inside 
I step into a great, loose-fitting comfortable 
leisure. I think as I like, I imagine what I please, 
I read or write as much as I feel inclined to, or 
with my legs on the table and my eyes on the river, 
I steep myself to the full in these sky-filled, light- 
filled, rest-filled days. 

After this interval it will take me some days to 
get over the awkwardness of renewing my old 
relations with my old friend, the Padma. By the 
time I have done some reading and writing and 
wandering by the river side, however, the old 
friendship will come back quite naturally. 

I really do love the Padma immensely. As the 
elephant, Airavat, is for Indra,^ so is she my fa- 
vourite steed, — albeit not thoroughly tamed and 
still a little wild, — and I feel I want lovingly to 
stroke her neck and back. 

The water is very low now, and flows in a thin, 
clear stream, like a slim, fair maiden gracefully 

^ The Jupiter Pluvius of Hindu Mythology. 



i6 LETTERS OF TAGORE 

tripping along with a soft, clinging garment follow- 
ing her movements. 

While I am living here the Padma, for me, is a 
real live person, so you must not mind my talking 
about her at some length, nor run away with the 
idea that all this news about her is not worth 
putting into a letter. These, in fact, are the only 
personal paragraphs I am in a position to com- 
municate from here. 

What a difference of outlook comes upon one in 
the course of the day that separates this place 
from Calcutta. -What, there, seems only senti- 
mental or rhapsodical is so true here. . . . 

I really cannot dance any more before the foot 
lights of the stage called the Calcutta public. I 
want to go on with my life's work in the clear day- 
light of this seclusion and leisure. There is no 
chance of recovering any peace of mind till one is 
back behind the scenes and has washed off one's 
paint. There is so much that is not pure gold, 
but only useless tinsel, in this editing of the 
Sadhayid magazine, this philanthropic activity, 
this bustle and worry of Calcutta life. 

If only I could go on with my work, in the full- 
ness of joy, under this open sky, this spreading 
peace, then something worth doing might get done. 



LETTERS OF TAGORE 17 

(77) 

Shelidah, 
8th May: 1893. 

Poetry Is a very old love of mine, — I must 
have been engaged to her when I was only Rathi's 
age. Ever since then the recesses under the old 
Banyan tree beside our tank, the inner gardens, 
the unknown regions on the ground floor of the 
house, the whole of the outside world, the nursery 
rhymes and tales told by the maids, went on creat- 
ing a wonderful fairyland within me. It is diffi- 
cult to give a clear idea of all the vague and 
mysterious happenings of that period, but this 
much is certain, that my exchange of garlands ^ 
with Poetic Fancy was duly celebrated. 

I must admit, however, that my betrothed is 
not an auspicious maiden, — whatever else she 
may bring one, it is not good fortune. I cannot 
say she has never given me happiness, but peace 
of mind with her is out of the question. The 
lover whom she favours may get his fill of bliss, but 
his heart's blood is v/rung out under her relentless 
embrace. It is not for the unfortunate creature 
of her choice ever to become a staid and sober 
householder, comfortably settled down on a social 
foundation. Whether I write for the Sddhana, or 

^ Betrothal ceremony. 



i8 LETTERS OF TAGORE 

look after the estates, my real life is as her bond 
slave all the time. 

Consciously or unconsciously, I may have done 
many things that were untrue, but I have never 
uttered anything false in my poetry; — that is the 
sanctuary where the deepest truths of my life find 
refuge. 



(78) 

Shelidah, 
loth May: 1893. 

Black, swollen masses of cloud are coming 
up and sucking off the golden sunshine from the 
scene in front of me like great big pads of blotting 
paper. These are not thin, famished looking 
clouds, but resemble the sleek, well-nourished 
offspring of the w^ealthy. The rain must be com- 
ing on, for the breeze feels moist and tearful. 

Over there, on the sky-piercing peaks of Simla, 
you will find it hard to realise, exactly, how im- 
portant an event, here, is this coming of the 
clouds, or how many are anxiously looking up to 
the sky, hailing their advent. 

I feel a great tenderness for these peasant folk — 
our ryots — big, helpless, Infantile children of 
Providence, who must have food brought to their 
very lips, or they are undone. When the breasts 



LETTERS OF TAGORE 19 

of mother Earth dry up, they know not what to 
do, but can only cry. And no sooner is their 
hunger satisfied than they forget all their past 
sufferings. 

I know not whether the Socialistic ideal of a 
more equal distribution of wealth is attainable, 
but if not, then such dispensation of providence is 
indeed cruel, and man is truly an unfortunate 
creature. For if in this world misery needs must 
exist, be it so; but let some little loophole, some 
glimpse of possibility at least, be left which may 
serve to urge the nobler portion of humanity to 
hope and struggle unceasingly for its removal. 

What a terribly hard thing they say who aver 
that the division of the world's production to 
afford each one a mouthful of food, a bit of cloth- 
Vng, is only a Utopian dream. How hard, in fact, 
are all these social problems. Fate has allowed 
humanity such a pitifully meagre coverlet that in 
pulling it over one part of the world, another has 
to be left bare. In allaying our poverty, we lose 
our wealth, and with this wealth what a world of 
grace and beauty and power is lost to our Society. 

But the sun shines forth again, though th^ 
clouds are still banked up in the West. 



20 LETTERS OF TAGORE 

(79) 

Shelidah, 

nth May: 1893. 

It has cleared up to-day after yesterday's 
heavy rain. A few straggling clouds, separated 
from the main body, are loitering near the hori- 
zon, whitened by the sunshine, looking innocent 
of any attempt at a downpour. But the gods 
should be included in the set of persons, unfit to 
be trusted, against whom Chayiakya ^ has warned 
us. 

It is a beautiful morning, the sky bright and 
clear, not a ripple on the river, yesterday's rain- 
drops sparkling on the grass of the sloping banks. 
Nature, altogether, seems invested with the dig- 
nity of a white-robed goddess. 

There is a curious silence this morning. For 
some reason or other there are no boats about, no 
one occupies the bathing place, the manager and 
his staff have come and gone early. 

As I, too, sit silent with responsive ear, I seem 
to hear a faint, but insistent, ringing harmony, to 
the accompaniment of which the sun-illumined 
sky streams in and fills my being, colouring 
all my thoughts and feelings with a golden 
blue. 

^ Author (Sanskrit) of a well-known set of witty aphorisms. 



LETTERS OF TAGORE 21 

(80) 

Idem. 

There is another pleasure which I have here. 
Sometimes one or other of our simple devoted old 
ryots comes to see me, — and their worshipful 
homage is so unaffected! How much greater 
than I are they in the beautiful simplicity and 
sincerity of their reverence. What if I am un- 
worthy of their veneration, their feeling loses 
nothing of its value. 

I regard these grown-up children with the same 
kind of affection I have for little children — but 
there is also a difference. They are more infantile 
still. Little children will grow up later on, but 
these big children never. 

A meek and radiantly simple soul shines through 
their worn and wrinkled old bodies. Little chil- 
dren are only simple, but they have not the un- 
questioning, unwavering devotion of these. If 
there be any undercurrent along which the souls 
of men may have communication with each other, 
then my sincere blessing will surely reach and 
serve them. 

All the ryots, of course, are not like these. The 
best is ever the rarest. 



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